


Baby, It's Cold Outside

by guinevere_grey



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Harry is pining and pretending he's not, Liam is ill and pretending he's not, Lirry - Freeform, M/M, Minor Angst, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 14:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2853707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guinevere_grey/pseuds/guinevere_grey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liam turns back to look at him, something guarded in his expression that makes Harry drop his hand, step back. “I don’t know, Harry, I just—tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, I really need to get home. My mum and dad will worry, and the girls, too.”</p>
<p>“They wouldn’t want you dying of pneumonia on my watch either,” Harry retorts, forcing a chuckle. Liam smiles wanly, but there’s still that tightness around his eyes. And Harry—Harry wants to hold his face between his hands, kiss the corners of his eyes until the tightness disappears, until Liam is soft and yielding against him.</p>
<p>But he’s afraid he’s shown too much already.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby, It's Cold Outside

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song "Baby It's Cold Outside," but with Liam ill and Harry trying to get him to take his medicine...and maybe stay the night.
> 
> Spoilery content warning: nobody gets roofied, but one character is given his prescription medicine without his knowledge--behavior I do not recommend or condone IRL (:

+

It’s two days till Christmas, and Liam is deathly ill. 

“I am _not_ ill, Harry, honestly,” Liam protests, being Liam, warm brown eyes shining earnest and bright across Harry’s countertop. Eyes a little _too_ bright, Harry thinks uneasily, watching the way Liam slumps against the counter, not spinning on the barstool with boundless energy, like he usually does. 

“Excuse me, Liam,” Harry says, gesturing with his soup spoon and leaving little dribbles on the granite. “I know for a fact I gave you this illness, so you had better own up to it and show a little gratitude. At least eat your soup; I slaved over that, y’know.”

Liam smiles a little doofy smile and brings his spoon to his lips, slurping halfheartedly at the broth before dropping his spoon to the bowl, limply poking at the chunks of chicken and vegetables, like it’s too heavy to manage properly. Harry frowns. 

He’d come down with it first, fever with a bonus of nasty chest congestion, on the very tail end of their band duties before New Year’s, before they were safely out of each others’ space for the hols. The other boys had adapted various defensive strategies: Louis by snarling at him to “keep your disgusting plague away from me, Styles” (then sending him check-up texts in the middle of the night); Zayn by nodding at the news and pretty much disappearing; Niall by shrugging his shoulders, proclaiming “que sera, sera,” and continuing to turn up for film nights in Harry’s room (though he took the other bed instead of cuddling up close). 

In the end, it was brutally unfair that Liam was the one who’d caught it. Liam had gone into full offense: guzzling fruit-and-veg smoothies with antioxidant boosters and bonus herbal supplements; buying tiny bottles of hand sanitizer to keep in his pockets and using it liberally; extending his workouts (ostensibly to keep himself and his immune system in tip-top shape), then sending Harry sad-faced “hope ur feeln betterrrrrrrr ! xx” snapchats from the gym. (Which, yeah. Did loads for Harry’s physical and emotional wellbeing.)

It all would have been borderline insulting. Except that it was Liam. 

Harry feels his stomach twist, watching the way Liam’s glassy-bright eyes drift, and he seems to sway slightly on his barstool. There’s meant to be a private car, picking him up at his own flat tonight so he can make it back to Wolverhampton for Christmas. At this rate, Harry isn’t sure that’s the best idea.

“Do not let him off by himself like this,” Louis had growled into Harry’s ear this morning when they parted at Heathrow, shoving a pliant Liam into Harry’s arms like so much snuffling laundry. “Look after him proper until he’s well enough to be out alone.”

“Heeeeeeeey,” Harry had told him, wrapping an arm around Liam, and letting him nuzzle sleepily into his neck. Liam’s nose nudged behind his ear, and he stifled a shiver. “My organic free-range chicken soup is good for the soul and the body, Tommo.” He’d opened the car door, easing Liam inside and turning to address Louis over his shoulder. “Also, I should be offended you’re giving Payno here so much more attention than me when I was poorly.”

Louis had snorted. “You’re a right baby when you’re ill, Hazza. I reckon all of the Northern Hemisphere here heard you were poorly. Our Payno is much more likely to try and pretend everything’s fine.” 

“I just—” Harry had paused, looked at his feet. “Not sure this is the best fit, is all.” He’d looked over at Liam, fiddling with his iPhone in the passenger seat, and felt his heart sink all over again. 

“Yes, well, Zayn’s with Perrie and the zoo, and Niall’s been promising to fuck off with Bressie and Eoghan and Laura and them for ages, and I’m obviously taken, so the task falls to you, young Harold.” Harry looked down, twisted his ring, and Louis sighed. “Just look out for him today, alright? Make him take his medicine, don’t let him be an idiot.” Louis shrugged, nudged him in the shin before falling into his car. “Hey, and wish me happy birthday.”

“I’m sure El will be doing more than enough of that in 18 hours or so,” Harry grinned at him, leaning over the car door.

Louis chortled. “Oh, Harold. You naughty boy.” He slammed the car door shut, narrowly missing Harry’s fingers, and Harry yelped in response. Louis shot him a thumb’s up, Harry flipped him off, and the car pulled away with Louis laughing inside.

Despite a long day spent pretty much napping on Harry’s couch and sipping halfheartedly at several mugs of herbal tea, Liam has only grown worse. He’d dozed off mid-morning, drooling on Harry’s couch cushions while Harry had puttered about the house, doing nonsensical household chores before giving up, plopping onto the couch and easing Liam’s body halfway on top of him. He’d watched old black and white Christmas movies on the lowest volume setting all day, rubbing circles into Liam’s back and wincing when he woke himself coughing, a deep, rattling thing that made Harry’s own lungs ache. The cough has eased somewhat, but Liam seems more feverish, and even less himself.

On top of that, there’s the snow: falling heavier each time Harry glances out the window. He can’t see how deep it is, but he’s pretty sure Liam’s in no condition to be out in it. Harry steals a glance: Liam keeps dragging his lower lip between his teeth, like a nervous tic, and he’s staring into nothing. After a moment’s hesitation, Harry makes a decision: he pulls out his phone and texts the car company, asking them to delay Liam’s pickup time a few hours. Maybe he’ll improve by then. 

“More soup, Liam?” Harry asks wryly, eyeing his bowl, which is almost completely full.

“No thank you,” Liam says almost dreamily. He straightens, scrubbing a hand over his flushed cheeks. “In fact, I should probably be, um, off.” He slides off the barstool, thudding heavily on the floor. “Thanks for letting me crash, and for the soup and all, but—”

“Hey,” says Harry, already halfway around the counter, hands reaching to steady Liam’s elbows and hoping he doesn’t sound too alarmed. “Don’t think so, mate. You still promised me a Christmas film and a cuddle.” 

“Pretty sure we already had a cuddle,” Liam breathes, and with his eyes all unfocused it’s almost like he’s looking at Harry’s mouth. Harry takes a sharp breath, looks away.

“Yeah, well, you weren’t so much conscious for most of it, were ya?” he says with forced lightness, nudging Liam back towards the couch and the tempting nest of afghans. 

Liam is uncoordinated and loose-limbed and pliant, but he continues to protest, licking his lips and looking at Harry with big, imploring eyes. “Really, Hazza, it’s been great, it really has, but I need to find my coat, and my—oof! Shoes.” Harry, having successfully walked Liam backwards to the couch and shoved him gently into it, ignores his pleading face and tucks the blankets in around him like it’ll imprison him there. 

“I know, I know, you need to get home soon,” he says, as kindly as he can. “Sure you want to head to Wolverhampton, though, mate? It’s looking like London’s gonna have a very white Christmas.”

“ _Dah-duh-dah-duh_ ,” Liam croons, evidently trying for the old-fashioned doo-wops from The Drifters’ version of “White Christmas.” He gives up after a moment, looks past Harry’s head, wide-eyed. “Oh, it is coming down, isn’t it?” Harry glances back at the massive window, and his breath catches at the beauty of it: the lights of London glowing dimly through a thick, silent haze of snowfall. For a moment he feels like he could stay here forever, just like this. 

Then he thinks of Liam, out there in the midst of it, and his stomach twists.

“Mmm,” he hums at Liam, turns back to the business of tucking the blankets around him. “Look, I’ll tell the car to come here instead, yeah? We—er, you have a few hours at least. You can pick out a film, take your medicine, get to feeling a bit better first.” 

Liam makes a face, even as he’s already tipping sideways to rest his head against the armrest, sighing deeply. “M’fine, Hazza, don’t need to take my medicine.” 

“Mm. Yes you do.” 

“It makes me all sleepy and…and dumb,” says Liam. “Well, dumber than usual.”

Harry’s heart drops. “You’re not dumb, Liam.”

“I don’t want to.” 

“Liam.”

“Nope.” There’s a rare, petulant set to Liam’s jaw, and Harry stifles a sigh. 

“Fine,” he says, as brightly as he can. He wishes Zayn were here. Zayn always knows how to curl himself into Liam and make him feel better. He’ll get Liam to toss back this evening’s allotment of cough syrup later—it’ll make him loopy, yeah, but Harry can walk him down to the street, bundle him into the cab with strict instructions to the driver and send him off just fine. He’ll be fine. 

Harry hopes. 

“You said before we were gonna booze it up,” Liam is saying, eyes rolling up at him imploringly. Harry barks a laugh.

“Not sure if you’re in much condition to be boozing it up, mate,” he says. When Liam comes back with a drawled-out “ _heeeeeeeeey_ ,” he’s forced to laugh again at the unmistakable impression of himself, and Liam beams, eyes crinkling.

“Hot toddy?” He pushes out his lower lip, and Harry’s eyes zero in on it. “Remember I’m ill, Hazza.”

“Oh, _now_ you’re ill, since you want at my alcohol, eh?” Harry teases him. But it’s—not actually a bad idea, and Harry has some brandy stashed somewhere, so he agrees, hands Liam the remote and tells him to queue up a film. “I’ll even build us a fire, how bout it?” he tosses over his shoulder on his way back to the kitchen.

Liam makes a noise that sounds like he’s trying to snort, but it comes out as more of a sleepy snuffle. “Not sure it counts if you’re just flipping a switch.” 

“Behave, young Payno,” Harry says ominously.

When he returns, steaming glass mug in each hand, the _Die Hard_ main menu is already on the screen. 

“’S totally a Christmas movie,” Liam insists, unnecessarily, with his lower lip pushed out (even more unnecessarily). Harry hands him his mug and picks up the afghan by a tasseled corner to wriggle underneath it, managing not to slosh any toddy out over his hands.

“Course it’s a Christmas movie,” Harry agrees, pressing a kiss to Liam’s forehead when he curls his shoulder. “Happens at Christmas, doesn’t it?” 

Liam snuffles happily and Harry grins, dropping another kiss to the top of Liam’s hair. He smells like Harry’s shampoo, citrus and rosemary, from the shower he took this morning, and like Liam. There’s a fierce, possessive little twist in the pit of Harry’s stomach. He so rarely has Liam to himself—Liam and Louis are partners in mischief, and he and Niall are always teaming up to keep everyone’s spirits high, and Zayn could be Liam’s soulmate, the way they orbit around each other. 

But Harry? 

He drains his mug, cranes his arm over to set it on the side table, and then cautiously tucks his newly freed arm around Liam’s shoulders.

He knows what Liam is to him. He just doesn’t know what he is to Liam. 

It’s surprising Liam doesn’t fall asleep during the movie, despite all the shouting and fighting and shooting. If anything, it’s his cough that probably keeps him awake—periodically, Liam will double over with the harsh, ugly sound of it, Harry watching helplessly and trying to soothe him by rubbing little circles on his back. Then Liam will settle back into his side again, curling his arm around Harry’s stomach and only humming dismissively when Harry asks if he’s okay. Harry can still hear the way his breath rattles slightly through his lungs, though, and he keeps glancing over at the window, watching the snow keep falling, heavier and heavier.

Harry ends up watching Liam more than the film, the flickering light from the screen and the fire playing over his face. His fingers are cold where they brush the exposed sliver of Harry’s hip (he prays Liam’s too out of it to notice when he moves his fingers and Harry shivers) but his cheeks look hot and flushed. It’s probably messed up how that’s turning Harry on a little bit. At one point he’s staring at Liam’s mouth, red lips parted slightly, and catches himself reaching with two fingers to trace it.

He jerks back and blames the alcohol. 

_Get your shit together, Styles_ he tells himself, thanking any deity listening in that Liam doesn’t appear to have noticed anything. 

The credits roll, and Liam is only still for a moment before sitting upright, away from Harry. Harry frowns; his entire side is cold, and now Liam is unfolding himself from the blankets and standing up. 

“Thanks for the film and everything, Haz,” Liam says through a yawn, stretching so his sweatshirt rides up to show an inch of abdomen. Harry is only momentarily distracted by that inch, then he’s scrambling to push the blankets aside and do his best to coax Liam away from his impending “goodnight and goodbye” speech. 

“Should probably text the car people to come get me, though,” Liam is saying when Harry finally extricates himself from the couch. 

“Honestly, mate, I don’t know if they’ll even send someone in this weather,” Harry says, doing his best to sound dubious and not just…anxious. He gestures out the window. “Look outside, it’s probably up to your knees out there.” 

Liam obediently turns to look, catching a cough in the inside of his elbow. Harry resists the urge to reach out and touch him, then decides that’s stupid and steps forward to rub his back soothingly until his coughs subside. 

“You should…” Harry hesitates. “Why don’t you just crash here tonight? Get some good sleep, strike out in daylight.”

Liam turns back to look at him, something guarded in his expression that makes Harry drop his hand, step back. “I don’t know, Harry, I just—tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, I really need to get home. My mum and dad will worry, and the girls.”

“They wouldn’t want you dying of pneumonia on my watch either,” Harry retorts, forcing a chuckle. Liam smiles wanly, but there’s still that tightness around his eyes. And Harry—Harry wants to hold his face between his hands, kiss the corners of his eyes until the tightness disappears, until Liam is soft and yielding against him.

But he’s afraid he’s shown too much already. Maybe that’s why Liam is being so stubborn, trying to pull away and disappear out into the snow. 

Then Harry spies Liam’s mug, still half-full, and gets an idea. An idea Louis would be incredibly proud of.

“How bout this then, mate,” he says. “Let me microwave your drink, then you can finish that, get your bones warmed up again, and then we’ll call the car, yeah?” 

Liam sucks his lower lip into his mouth for a moment. “Yeah, okay,” he says finally, but Harry is already snatching the mug and absconding to the kitchen. He peers around the wall while the toddy is in the microwave, half-nervous that Liam will be attempting to sneak out the front door. But he’s only scuffing one socked toe against the wood floor, peering out the window, cozy and cuddly endearing and looking—looking very much like he belongs here, in Harry’s flat. 

The microwave beeps, and Harry all but throws himself at it, yanking out the mug and, as quietly as he can, slipping his fingers into the white paper pharmacy bag containing Liam’s cough syrup. Wincing guiltily, he pours out a sloppy capful and dumps it into the mug, stirring rapidly and praying the alcohol and spices are enough to camouflage the cloying medicinal taste. 

Liam is still standing at the window when Harry returns with the mug. 

“D’you think we got papped—oh, thanks, Hazza,” he says, reaching for the toddy and taking a gulp. Harry tries very hard to look innocent while maintaining zero eye contact. Hopefully he doesn’t flinch when Liam splutters. “Christ! What is _in_ this drink?” 

“Probably your taste buds are all fucked from being ill,” Harry says quickly. “What were you saying about getting papped?” He steals a glance at Liam, who, miraculously, is taking another sip. At least some of the medicine is in his system, now—he’ll hate Harry if he figures it out, but hopefully he’ll either never figure it out or realize it was ultimately for his own good. 

“I was just wondering if we got papped coming back here today,” Liam says quietly, tracing the rim of the mug with his thumbnail. 

“Uh,” Harry wracks his brain, trying to remember—they’re all pretty good at tuning out the paps by this point. “Maybe? Probably. Why do you ask?”

“I just. You know. Just nervous there will be speculation.” Liam takes another gulp, grimaces. 

“Speculation, fancy word there, Mr. Payne,” Harry laughs. Then there’s an ugly twist in his stomach. “What do you mean, speculation?”

Liam is staring hard into his mug. “About…you know. People might think.”

Harry is silent for a moment, trying to quiet the words clawing in his throat. So this is it, Liam knows, and he’s warning Harry off. Letting him know exactly how he doesn’t want things to go down, exactly what he doesn't want people thinking. “I doubt anyone sane would make much of it,” he finally says, “one bandmate crashing at another’s flat during a massive blizzard. Plus, it’s not like you’re Lou,” he can’t help adding, a bit nastily.

Then it’s Liam who’s forcing a laugh, one that doesn’t crinkle his eyes. “Know I’m not,” he murmurs. He turns to Harry, eyes shining sadly, and Harry finally notices his mug is empty. It doesn’t make him feel any better. 

“Thanks for the drink, again,” Liam says, gesturing with the empty mug and taking a step towards the kitchen, like he’s going over to put his mug in the sink and grab his phone and wallet off the counter and walk out Harry’s front door into the snow, pretending he’s fine because he’d rather do that than stay here in this flat with Harry. 

“Please, Liam,” Harry says helplessly, stepping forward and grabbing his arm, snatching the mug out of his hand and putting it on the side table, “please don’t go.”

Liam looks down at the floor. “Why not,” he says in a small voice. 

Harry shrugs, helplessly. “It’s cold outside.” 

Liam looks up, and Harry hadn’t realized he must have moved in closer, because the way Liam’s face is angled up towards his, he can see so much of him: the glints in his eyes, the stubble in need of trimming, the tender split in his chapped lips. 

“And,” Harry adds slowly, knowing he’s still staring at Liam’s mouth but helpless to stop, “you’re not well. You’ll freeze out there.”

“I’m a big boy, Harry,” Liam says softly. “I don’t—I won’t stay here and ruin your holidays.”

Something tight snarls in Harry’s throat. “You don’t know what you’re saying, Liam,” he chokes out.

Liam’s dropped his gaze again. “Know you don’t want me here.” The corner of his mouth lifts in a little smile. “Know you’d rather I be with somebody else. So just, like. Just let me go, yeah?”

“ _Liam_ ,” Harry breathes out. His mind is one massive whiteout, an error message flashing repeatedly, trying to process how on earth Liam could think of himself as unwanted, by anyone, but most of all by Harry. 

Caution be damned. He cradles Liam’s face with his free hand, desperately coaxing him to look up. “Liam, please. Look at me.” 

It takes a long moment, and Harry’s thumb stroking helplessly across Liam’s jaw, before he does, and then—Harry’s not quite sure what he even wants to say, but he plunges in, regardless. 

“I just want you to be happy, yeah? And, like, I know you’d rather be with Louis, or Zayn, or, or Niall, and I’m sorry you’re stuck with me. And I’m sorry I’ve massively fucked this up, and if you want me to leave you alone and not speak to you until New Year’s, or even until tour, I will but—please don’t leave. Please don’t go out there.” 

Somewhere in the midst of that, his other hand came up, so now he’s holding Liam’s face in his hands, and Liam’s fingers are drawn tight around one wrist like he’s going to pry Harry’s hand off—except he’s not. His thumb traces circles on Harry’s wrist, and Harry shudders openly. 

“Can’t you see what you do to me?” Liam whispers dazedly, eyes drifting lower, and then shut, brows furrowing slightly like he’s in pain.

Harry takes in a breath, holds Liam’s face tighter. “What—Liam—what?”

Liam looks up at him again. “I don’t want to leave,” he whispers. “I want to stay with you. I want…you.” 

There’s a wounded sound, and Harry only just realizes it’s from him before he’s surging forward and kissing Liam desperately. Liam gasps into his mouth, then moans, and Harry’s fingers are already sliding around to the back of his head, angling him where he wants him, before Liam is pulling back with wide eyes. 

“Don’t—you shouldn’t—you’ll get sick!” 

Harry’s immediate jolt of panic at Liam pulling away morphs into something halfway between giddy and smug. “Pretty sure I can’t catch something I gave you, babe,” he says, against the shell of Liam’s ear. “And even then,” he whispers, dragging his lips over Liam’s jaw, back to the corner of his mouth, “would still be worth it.” He drops one hand to steal around Liam’s waist and tug him back in, even closer, where he belongs.

“Mmph,” Liam moans when Harry kisses him again, still shallow, his tongue flicking out to catch the split in Liam’s bottom lip. He tastes like metal and spices and, faintly, like cough syrup. He grins when Liam’s hand drags up Harry’s chest to fist in his shirt, fingernails scraping through the material and making Harry shiver. 

“Still, kinda gross, innit?” Liam rasps between kisses.

“Don’t care,” Harry says, dragging his teeth down the curve of Liam’s throat, lapping up the salt. He nips at Liam’s birthmark and feels him jolt. “Not letting you go, babe.” He tugs down the collar of Liam’s sweatshirt, latches on just above his collarbone, worrying the skin gently between his teeth and savoring the way Liam’s shivering against him. When he lets up, the skin is flushed an angry red, and Liam’s eyes have gone slightly glassy. 

“Harry,” says Liam. He sounds wrecked already, and Harry would love to press him against the wall, into the sofa, onto the kitchen counter, find out what noises he makes when he’s really wrecked.  
Instead, he kisses the mark he’s just made, dragging his lips back up Liam’s throat until he can kiss him again, sweet and lingering. Liam is making soft noises in the back of his throat by the time Harry presses one last kiss to the corner of Liam’s mouth and then pulls back. 

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s get you to bed.” 

Liam grins, leaning forward as if to chase Harry’s lips, but he wavers slightly and Harry has to steady him. “Does that line usually work?” 

Harry grasps his chin gently and tilts it up. Liam’s eyes flutter shut and, softly, Harry kisses each eyelid. “Course,” he murmurs fondly. “Gonna have ourselves a real sexy time. I’m gonna make us some tea, and see if I have a humidifier about the place, just for ambience. Maybe see if I have some flannel pajamas in a drawer somewhere.”

“What else?” says Liam, curling himself into Harry’s neck and exhaling. 

“I’m going to hold you real close,” says Harry. He bends down, noses into Liam’s neck and pressing his lips there for a long moment, pulling Liam in even tighter. “Keep you warm all night.”

+

**Author's Note:**

> Look me up on tumblr: my [main](http://borispavlikovskys.tumblr.com) or my [1D sideblog](http://ziambicpentameter.tumblr.com)


End file.
